


Gifts for the Adon

by ryfkah



Category: Dalemark Myth and Folklore, The Dalemark Quartet - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryfkah/pseuds/ryfkah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact that the Singer had entered the camp singing that song meant that he expected Manaliabrid to recognize him, and that he wanted her to keep quiet about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts for the Adon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [betony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betony/gifts).



“The robin's silence...” had been composed hundreds of years ago, before even Manaliabrid was born. It was a strange, difficult song with a bitter twist to it, and while it had been popular once, it was not anymore. The fact that the Singer had entered the camp singing it meant that he expected Manaliabrid to recognize him, and that he wanted her to keep quiet about it. 

Since the last thing Manaliabrid wanted to do was rise and embrace her feckless uncle Mallard, she was more than happy to comply. As more and more people wandered over to listen to the music, she stayed quietly in her corner of the Adon's hall, working on her embroidery and hoping he would go away. 

The embroidery was only something to keep her hands busy. She had never put magic into her stitches. Sewing and weaving were too tied to words – soft, flexible, ambiguous. Manaliabrid liked things that were solid.

The music stopped eventually, and people started to drift away. That was good. After that it was possible for her to hear the murmuring of her husband's voice, interspersed with the light, dry tones of her uncle, though she could not make out what they were saying. This seemed to go on for a long time, which was less good. Then it died away as someone else came in – Kastri, she thought, probably. Manaliabrid tied off the piece of gold thread she had been using, and carefully picked up the brown.

Footsteps, and then soft boots and leather breeches, just a little too well-stitched for an ordinary wandering Singer.

She looked up. “Did Mother send you to keep an eye on me?”

Mallard laughed. “What a stupid question! You know it's far more likely to be the other way around.”

Manaliabrid frowned down at her hands. It did not make her feel any better to be reminded that Tanaqui was incapable of taking her younger brother seriously as an adult. If Mallard had not managed to convince her of the fact that he had grown up over the course of a thousand years, Manaliabrid seemed unlikely to have any better luck.

“No – I'm here for the same reason you are.” Mallard nodded in the direction of the man across the tent. “It's got nothing to do with you.”

“Hasn't it?”

“Maybe a little to do with you.” Mallard swung the instrument off his back and settled down on the floor across from her, as if she had invited him, which she had not. “I've seen the things you've made him. It's impressive. I'd no idea you had that kind of skill. A sword that only its wearer can draw?”

“A sword that only the true king can draw,” said Manaliabrid, stiffly.

Mallard raised his eyebrows. “I've met plenty of kings, you know,” he remarked. Manaliabrid knew what he was saying. Perhaps when your older brother had become a king by accident, it was hard to take the whole concept seriously. Mallard thought the idea of a true king was a clever trick, like her mother did; the only difference was that Mallard approved of clever tricks. 

They neither of them understood. It had been too long since either of them had been tied to anything real. Kings rose and fell for them like waves on the river. 

“Why are you here?” she asked again.

“I told you.” Mallard's face went serious, abruptly. His fingers played over invisible strings on his knee. “I've seen what you're doing.”

“So?”

“All this time you've never found anything you thought was worth putting yourself into. Now, all of a sudden, you're turning out wonders. Well, it's been a while, you know, since I turned out a wonder.” 

There was a note in his voice that made Manaliabrid lift her head sharply to look into his eyes. “So you came to – what? To write my husband songs?”

Mallard shrugged. “To see if your Adon made me want to write songs.” 

Manaliabrid felt her stomach clench up with something that could have been fear. “So you're staying, then.”

“I'm staying.” Mallard picked up the spool of gold thread and started twisting it, absently. “I've given him the name Osfameron.”

“Osfameron?” echoed Manaliabrid, her mouth twisting. 

“Osfamon wouldn't mind.”

Manaliabrid was not so sure of that. But Osfamon the Singer, and the tears he'd shed over Mallard, had been a long time ago. Manaliabrid had only been a child when that happened, and all she really remembered was her mother sighing over her loom: “Duck, you never learn!”

“So it's songs you'll be making,” she said. “Not spells.”

“You know better than that,” said Mallard, kindly. She did, of course. For him songs and spells were the same. It had been so lovely, being only among the human sort of people, who could make any kind of music they wanted and not have it mean anything more than what it said. Her husband had a beautiful voice. “Anyway, you're one to talk. What else are you making him, Manaliabrid?” 

Manaliabrid jabbed the needle with the brown thread into the banner. “I'm making him a kingdom, of course. One that will last.”

“The first King we met --”

“I know,” said Manaliabrid, her irritation getting the best of her. “You've only put it in a dozen songs! I _know_. If you're going to get in our way --”

“I won't,” said Mallard. “I'm going to help you. It'll make a good song, anyway.” 

Apparently this was the end of the conversation. Mallard stood, picked up his cwidder, and wandered off, plucking a few chords as he did. It was “The robin's silence...” again. With a sudden twist in her stomach, Manaliabrid remembered that that was really a song about a king, too. A king, and an almost-queen. She knew the story.

She was of the Undying, which made it hard not to be trapped by stories. Still, stories and songs were slippery. They shifted and faded, bending under the weight of anything that had weight to it. A cup, a ring, a sword, a King: she had made these things. They were real. She could hold them in her hands.


End file.
